


the song of a sceptre of steel

by mariafuckingcalavera



Category: RWBY
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24527497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariafuckingcalavera/pseuds/mariafuckingcalavera
Summary: Lot 666.A chandelier in pieces, he remembers so clearly.He recalled the dreaded Phantom of the Opera: a mystery never fully explained.They were told of the mysterious Phantom that had killed a famous opera singer and a stagehand before vanishing into the old waterways, of the chandelier plummeting to the floor. They were told of the mystical man with a voice of angels, of the horrors that lay behind a mask of steel. But they knew nothing of the terror of his life, the truth in it's purest form: ugly, scarring, traumatizing to the bone.Perhaps he might frighten away the ghost of so many years ago, he thinks, if the story get told, if it doesn't stay locked in his heart, if it spills onto the page. Perhaps, with a little...illumination. Gentlemen!
Relationships: James Ironwood & Roman Torchwick, Qrow Branwen & Roman Torchwick, Qrow Branwen/Roman Torchwick
Comments: 10
Kudos: 13





	1. overture

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally meant to be day 7 of magpie week, but as i was writing it, i got carried away with it and thought it deserved more than one chapter! so i wrote a lot on it and i'll be segmenting it into chapters! so have day 7: AU / Free Day! this is a Phantom of the Opera AU, i hope you enjoy :D 
> 
> title credits to @/Angcourd on twitter!

His father was someone who admired music.

Roman remembered how his nights were filled with the sound of his father's violin, the notes of one of the many melodies he composed himself singing through the evening breeze. He'd remember how his father would sing through the night: the corner of his lips curled upwards when he finished composing a new song, the aftertaste of it lingering on his own tongue for weeks after. He remembered how his father's eyes lit up with a captivating joy as he spoke of music, the beauty in each melody as Roman listened with a carnal fascination. He'd remember visiting his father in the Vale Opera House whilst he worked, his own expression alight with wonder as he heard the choir of dancers and the arias that echoed in his mind for ages.

It was no surprise when the son of the prodigal violinist turned out to have a heart for music as well, soon opting to pursue a career in the opera. It was a normal occurrence to pass by their home to hear a sweet melody of their own design, piano and violin melding together, invisible voices creating a masterpiece. It was a normal occurrence to hear the young boy practice with the vocal coaches and the other opera students in the Vale Opera House. Roman Torchwick was one of the youngest students, but his father's musical expertise and his own natural talent caught the eye of many in the theatre. He had quickly fit in the crowds of the dancers and singers, finding himself a home amongst them.

He was only 10 when he first heard of the man that had caused him so much pain.

"Who's the Angel of Music?" He asked his father one night as he tucked him in, and that was the first night he heard the reason why his father fell in love with music, the first tie he heard of the man that ignited the spark of passion in his heart with his hypnotizing voice and the mystery that shrouded him. This clear night was the first time he spoke of his admiration for the Angel of Music, and how his song illuminated the night in a thousand stars, how his voice was so entrancing, you couldn't help but be enamoured by its sheer beauty. And he didn't know if it was his father's own biased, influenced viewpoint of him or his childish self who just didn't know better, but he remembered how he couldn't help but idolise this Angel of Music his father spoke of. How he weaved masterpieces in between his fingers with every instrument he played, his voice smoother than silk. His father had described his voice to be more majestic than life and love itself, words evoking sorrow and sympathy, passion and admiration, love and desire as he slowly pulls down his walls, unravelling the mystery of the Angel of Music: letting you dive deeper into the trenches of his heart, his soul, losing all sense and indulging in the euphoria.

That night, he had told Roman that when the time came, he would call for the Angel of Music to take Roman underneath his wing, to teach him everything he knew.

And now, wrapped in shock blankets and the arms of his beloved as the opera house behind him gets surrounded with police, Roman knows he should have dreaded that fateful day.

But it's over now, and the person that mattered the most in his world was alive, safe, right beside him.

And as Qrow plants a kiss against his forehead, as his childhood love pulls him in closer, he relishes in that thought as he holds Qrow's free hand and holding it, fingers finding the pulse on his wrist that thumped steadily. A reminder that Qrow was still here, that Roman was still here, that they were alright.

That they would be alright, and they were all that mattered.

~~~

"Qrow, you'll catch a cold!" Roman hollered at the top of his lungs, but his voice carried away in the breeze, his warnings falling on deaf ears as Qrow sprinted towards the shore, Roman chasing after him. He can't help but roll his eyes when Qrow turns around with that _stupid_ smirk on his face, walking backwards towards the shore without a care in the world.

"Do you want that hat back or not, Romeo?" Qrow asks cheerily as he kicks off his shoes, his coat and scabbard with Harbinger inside following suit as he tosses both of them in Roman's direction before running into the ocean. Roman huffed as he swiftly picked up Qrow's belongings seconds before the seawater could wash over the fabric, the act slowing him down. He looked up to see Qrow already knee-deep into the vast blue ocean, concern written all over his face.

Roman didn't think this would happen when they had decided to take a walk by the beach. After all, it was a pleasant afternoon, the sky a vibrant, striking with minimal spots of white and the low tide of the ocean only to match, the sand soft beneath their shoes and the sunlight warming their backs as they laughed amongst themselves. He didn't think a freak gust of wind would interrupt Qrow's story about a Beowolf and carry his favourite hat off his head and into the ocean, only to be washed away into the sea.

And he certainly didn't think Qrow would immediately dash after it without a second's hesitation, rose red eyes fixated on the bowler hat as if he didn't know his stubborn determination would make water could cling to his clothes the whole day.

"Qrow, it's just a hat! Come back here!" Roman beseeched to deaf ears as Qrow, ever so strong-willed, ever so daring, ignored his words and ventured deeper into the unknown waters. Roman didn't even know why he bothered to plea: he knows it's no use, but the brief panic that spikes when Qrow dives underneath the waves and Roman can't see him is enough to make Roman try once more.

"Qrow, please! You're more important to me than a dumb hat!" He tries again, but the result's the same: his cries falling to deaf ears as he sees Qrow's figure bobbing in the wave, fighting against the current to retrieve a damned hat. He can't help but panic every time he sees Qrow's hair sink beneath an oncoming wave, but it's dissolved with the white foam of the sea as he sees his arms broke the surface of the water, swimming in freestyle so he could battle against the current. His own emerald green eyes were fixated on the man bobbing in between the waves, his entire body battling against the current just to reach the faint, black bob he can barely see. With every time he sinks beneath the waves, Roman takes a step forward, fear fluttering in his chest, driving him close and closer to the water. He can't bring himself to care as he steps closer and closer and he barely notices until he's knee deep in the ocean, water soaking the bottom of his coat and his trousers, shoes and socks filling with water (as his own heart fills with dread, the mere thought of losing his love to the ocean's harsh waves, the mere thought of living a life without Qrow- god, it sickens him to the stomach).

"I got it!" He hears a voice holler from the distant seas, and he sighs with relief when he see a small figure miles away, waving a black hat above his head frantically. He can't help but let out a laugh of relief as he saw the little bird swim back to him. He can already picture the cheeky, triumphant grin on his face that made his heart soar, the victory and joy in his eyes when he presents the bowler hat to him. But his imagination is nothing compared to the relief he feels when he sees Qrow near the shore, that same grin on his face as he looks up at Roman, hat clutched tightly in his hands.

"Told you I'd get it back for you, Romeo." He chuckles tiredly as he crawls onto the shore, and Roman sets Qrow's belongings on a nearby rock before his knees buckle to hit the sand. He cups Qrow's cheeks in his hands, looking into rose red eyes that just look so _pleased_ with himself he can barely bring himself to reprimand him.

"You're crazy. You're absolutely insane, little bird." He laughs, his voice heavy with relief.

"You wouldn't have me any other way, Romeo." He airily jokes, and Roman tries to ignore the butterflies in his stomach.

"It was just a hat, you know." Roman breathily laughs, and Qrow's next words sound so sure, so certain, as if he has no other reason.

"But you love that funky little hat. Why else would I jump into the sea to get it, dumbass?" _I love you more, I love you so much more,_ he can't help but think to himself as he brushes aside some of Qrow's hair.

"You're soaking wet now, you're such an idiot for doing that for me." 

"I'd do anything for you." He admits and his heart flutters because it falls out of his lips and into the air so easily, so genuine like he means it and _god,_ he's such a fool in love: head over heels, absolutely smitten as his heart lays in Qrow's hands.

A shiver from Qrow breaks him out of his trance, and Roman helps him up, concern painted on his face as he guided him out of the water.

"We need to get you into a hot bath before you catch something, we can't have that." He fusses as he wraps Qrow's coat around him before he takes out his own coat, wrapping Qrow in a feeble attempt to keep him warm.

But little did Roman know that his presence, that his concern, that the smile that never fades from emerald green eyes was worth every single drop of seawater that clung to Qrow's body. Little did Roman know that even as Qrow lay in bed, stricken from a cold that binds him to his bed for days, he didn't regret it for one second because it put a smile on Roman's face. And little did Roman knew that Qrow felt the same, that they had loved each other for all their lives without any of them catching on to the other's feelings: too wrapped up in bright cheery mornings filled with laughter as Qrow came by after his morning training with the famed Maria Calavera and Harbinger, his father and his love laughing in the kitchen as Roman walked down the stairs, eyes lidden with sleep. They were too occupied with the routine they had grown to love, the giggles and misadventures in between Qrow's Huntsmen training and Roman's pursuit of music, the bright afternoons spent at picnics in the beach as Roman tells him of the Angel of Music and Qrow listens on lovingly, a look on his face unintelligible to Roman but anyone else there would have known it was love. They were so wrapped up in their stories hidden in songs as his father played the violin, too busy being enamoured with rose red and emerald green to notice anything else. They were too busy falling deeper into the dark, unknown depths of love to see that the other had fallen just as deep into soft, rose red eyes sparkling with something that was simply incomprehensible, into content smiles and spread across his face as emerald green shone in the moonlight. And life was simple, like that. It was a magical simplicity he took joy in, one they loved.

Then, Roman's father fell ill and Qrow's acceptance letter to Haven Academy came: a Trojan Horse that would tear them apart.

When they were mere children, they had made a list of things they would do when the time came: running through the streets, reenact the battles of legend, ending their last days together with laughter on their lips and adrenaline pumping in their veins before Qrow had to leave for four years. But such things were forgotten when Roman's father was fighting for his life in his bed, delirious from god knows what, his insanity even puzzling the most prestigious doctors their family could afford. Qrow would come to their house when the sun shone bright to see Roman in an uneasy slumber in his father's chair, darkened bags starting to form underneath his eyes. He would always carry him back to his bedroom (with less trouble with each passing day as he got lighter than a feather: that in itself worried Qrow to no end), making sure he slept and ate when he eventually awoke, calming him when he cried, letting his tears stain the white material covering his shoulders until he drifted asleep in his arms, caring for Roman's sick, frail father whilst Roman rested.

And when Roman's father died, his heart shattered to see a part of Roman's soul die along with him.

The fact that he had to leave for Haven Academy two days later only made everything worse.

He remembered their tearful goodbye, he remembered his heart shattering as Roman held back his tears, a devastated smile on his face and eyes that betrayed him to the highest degree. A lip that trembled as he waved him goodbye, before he sees Roman break down into tears on the harbour once he thinks Qrow couldn't see: crumpling to the ground, breaking into a thousand pieces just out of reach. And with his father dead and his first love was whisked away to faraway lands before he could blink, he was left all alone. And his misery, in his woe, Roman met him: the object of his father's admiration, the man that forged his passion for music, the man that created him of his own design, destroying him in the process.

He met his father's Angel of Music.

He met the Phantom of the Opera.


	2. is it the ghost that thinks of me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> think of me,  
> think of me fondly  
> when we've said goodbye

_"Have you seen him?"_

_"As plainly as I see you now."_

_"His eyes a deep blue, his face concealed with silver-"_

_"How can we be so sure? Silver has a shine that his mask lacks in the light, your eyes deceive you."_

_"A gentleman with death written all over his face, a ghastly monstrosity of a man..."_

_Neopolitan shakes her head silently at their outrageous rumours, for she knows the true terrors behind their horror stories: of the man, the monster, the genius, the void. She knows but she dare not speak,_ will _not speak, will not utter a single word ever again._

_For if she does, he will find her again._

~~~

In the years that followed his father's death, Roman Torchwick's only solace was found between the lines of the stave, the curves of every clef, the notes that decorated a blank slate.

Following his scheduled singing lessons in Signal Academy by day and pouring his soul into his sorrowful melodies by night, you could say Roman lived and breathed music if you didn't know who he was, but that couldn't be further from the truth. What was seen as an aggressive passion that never faltered was, in reality, the only way he could feel connected with his father, the only way he could feel less alone. There was no life in it, no passion, no love: but with every note he sang, he felt a familiar presence: the only light in this pit of darkness, the voice of his father and his tales of the Angel of Music. During the night, in the after-hours of the sunset, you'd hear a haunting voice drive you to tears up above, in the rafters backstage. Songs of woe, songs of loneliness, songs of longing, songs of grief as the melodies of a lonely boy echo through the empty opera house below, calling to anyone to fill the void in his heart. Tormented by loneliness, by the absence of his father, his best friend, all he has left is the notes you hear if you stay in the closed opera house just a little bit longer. Hauntingly ethereal, but heartwrenching, every note made you feel as he did: alone. 

And that fateful night started out the same as any, identical to all the lonely nights that came before this one, all with the exception of-

"Your voice..." The ghostly voice whispers through the air, sending chills up the boy's spine, his heart pounding as he looks around the rest of the rafters for the source of the voice but he finds nothing until he faces the moonlight to which he finds nothing but his foot finds the air instead of the beam behind him, and he slips, he falls, nearly plummeting to his death below-

A strong arm wraps around his waist and he's pulled into the embrace of a man of unparalleled beauty.

The only thing that saves him is the darkness that shrouds his figure, but he can distinguish pitch-black hair that's slicked back neatly, admiral blue eyes, a soft baritone calming, soothing, the boy finds himself captivated-

The realisation hits him quicker than the rapids of a river, but the mysterious figure has vanished. But now he has to know. He has to ask.

"Are you the Angel my father sent for me?"

His answer comes when he's welcomed into the cast and crew of the Vale Opera House in tribute of his father and his own talent, feeling proud, admiral blue eyes staring back at him.

~~~

He didn't know it at the time, but this moment was the spark of his demise.

He remembers screaming, he remembers the terror-stricken expressions that haunted every face as the backdrop tumbles to the floor, barely missing Cinder's head by inches, interrupting her aria. Terrified screams, forever imprinted in the edges of his mind,

"He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!"

What felt like the beginnings of a reign of terror was the culmination of whispers and rumours that lingered in the air with increasing frequency. Minor irregularities and mishaps, mutterings of a disfigured figure in the darkness, the paranoia that only knew how to worsen. He knows very well that everyone in the room feels it: the tension rising as his heartbeat quickens, deafening in his ears. Demented choirs of wails and shrieks echo across the stage but find themselves distant from him: discordant notes singing a horrified symphony, accented by exclamations of outrage as the rest of the stage crew help the leading soprano to her shaking feet, eyes formerly filled with the fires of her ambition extinguished by tears.

"Cinder! Cinder, are you hurt?!"

"Signora! Are you alright?"

"Is no one concerned for our primadonna?"

Roman Torchwick was far beyond concerned, but there he stood: frozen in terror, his hands starting to tremble, feeling the same fear everyone in the room, only differing from them by the feeling of dread that loomed over him: one that lingered in the pit of his stomach, one he simply couldn't fathom.

"Tyrian, where's Tyrian?! Chief of the flies, he's responsible for this."

Yes, it must have been Tyrian. _His sense of humour was twisted and questionable and no one else should have been up there, he could have done this,_ Roman tried to rationalize as he watched the chaos unfold.

(Please, let him be the one that done this.)

"Tyrian! For God's sake, man, what's going on up there?" The previous owner, Ozpin, exclaims in anger as the scorpion faunus saunters onto centre stage and into the limelight. The glint in his yellow eyes makes Roman nauseous with dread as he sees the crazed glee in his eyes, tail swinging back and forth, hands clasped together, lips twisted in a manic grin.

"Please monsieur, don't look at me." His hands splay out, one covering his chest as he steps back, straightening up, feigning shock for a split second.

"As God's my witness, I was not at my post!"

His heart starts to sink to his stomach, and he knows he isn't the only one.

"Please monsieur, there's no one there, and if there is, well, then..." He drifts off, his lips twisting into a sickening grin.

"It must be a ghost!"

He can feel nothing but sheer dread: a cold, darkened fear that threatens to consume him, to overpower everything else and send him in despair. His eyes remain fixated on the fallen backdrop that had just missed Cinder's head by an inch, bile rising from his stomach and his throat as his heart plummets to his stomach, his heartbeat deafening in his ears. Even if Roman knows he's protected, that the Angel will ensure no harm befalls him, he knows others are not so lucky. He knows that everyone sees this masked face in every corner they turn: in the seams of the tapestries, in the remnants of white chalk stuck in the crevice of the oak wood, and Roman knows he should be safe, he should be fine, but he can't help the doubt that haunts him.

_"Your chains are mine, you sing for me."_

God, he can't breathe, he can't _breathe-_

"Roman Torchwick could sing it, sir!" The voice of the Danseur Étoile, Emerald Sustrai, jerks him back onto the stage, onto the many eyes on his fear-stricken expression as he's suddenly the centre of attention. What had happened, why was his name even _mentioned,_ he was a mere chorus boy! He looked towards Madame Goodwitch, hoping she'd give him an explanation, but all she did was agree, continuing,

"He's been taking lessons from a great teacher." Wait, Roman had never uttered a single word of his mentor, no other soul had heard of the Angel, how did she know, how could she have known-

"From whom?" The man, the new manager of the opera house- one of them, at least- Monsieur...Oobleck, was it? Port? Were those their names? They had just taken over the opera house mere minutes ago, he was too engrossed with Neo's animated retelling of a brawl she had witnessed in the markets to remember their names. But that isn't what matters now, what matters was the fact _she knows of him_ , knows that he truly exists.

How does Madame Goodwitch know of the Angel of Music?

"I don't know, sir?" He responds but his mind is immediately elsewhere, his gaze fixated on Madame Goodwitch as he aches to ask how she knew of the Angel that had guided and protected him, was it a slip of his tongue whilst intoxicated, did she see him, what has she heard, what does she know-

"Let him sing for you, monsieur. He has been..." She meets his eyes, as if she knows what he desires to know, and her stare tells him one thing.

"Well taught." _Not here, not now, but you will know what you seek._

Roman takes a deep breath as he nods, walking to centre stage and waits for the notes from the piano to echo through the room before his voice follows suit, singing the song the Angel had helped him hone and refine. Many nights singing the song with them resurface in his mind: notes and harmonies kept locked away in his underground oasis, stalagmites of crystal and stone hanging off the ceiling, golden fires and rays of candlelight illuminating the cavern, candlewax melting into the walls as they practised. Elegant, gloved fingers flying on the keys of the piano as he played it for Roman, nights spent in a world of their own, where it was just the two of them: the Angel of Music and his only disciple, a being of mystical, ethereal beauty and the mere mortal who's unable to comprehend the full extent of his beauty. He remembered the admiration in his eyes despite the fact that his voice was much more heavenly and how he wondered why he refused to let anyone else other than him be captivated by his enchanting voice.

He makes it through the song with that thought in mind: thinking of the song, focusing in the sweet melody of longing and love, even smiles as a faint flicker of a person starts to form before his eyes- slicked back, raven black hair and rose-red eyes brimming with life- as he sings a song dedicated to the past, to the memories he cherished before his life in the Opera, of peaceful mornings with idle chatter before callused hands and a smile whisk him away into whatever the day had for them. As he sings, he thinks of him, of the summers they spent together so long ago.

He falters when admiral blue eyes appear in the dark, shining like sapphires in the golden light of the chandelier, but callused hands usher him to carry on, a gruff, but endearing voice whispering incomprehensible encouragement in his ears.

And when he finishes the song, he hears the congratulations, he hears Oobleck giving him the role of Elissa, Watts asking him to have a private session so he can run over what Roman knows, as the figure from his thoughts fades away, leaving Roman with a smile.

Until the warmth the memories brought vanish, and dread entangles itself within his consciousness: something he just can't shake.

~~~

The city of Vale transformed a wonderland underneath the showers of moonlight as the shattered pieces of the moon scattered across the night sky.

And Qrow Branwen remembered each and every marvel and spectacle that the silver rays illuminated: local food that erupted in thousands of different flavours, the stars decorating the skies at the outskirts of the city, the laughs that echo through the night, the jazz band that played hours and hours into the night. The dancing that filled the street if you went to the right places, how your feet would never stop once they started, there was just something about Vale that was simply absent everywhere else: the humble security of the community and the flourishing of businesses that kept the nation afloat, the perfect combination of the countless aspects of humanity: the glamour just ambitious enough not to consume you in bright lights and stardom, the ability to find your home in the heart of any household, in between the bricks of every street.

It's been ten years since he set foot into Vale with the intention to stay, but even now, he steps into a warm welcome and open arms.

"Uncle Qrow, we're here! We're here!! We're here, we're here, we're here!!" Excited squeals interrupt his reminiscing, a high pitched shriek his only warning before a flurry of petal crashes into Qrow's back, nearly sending him toppling over the edge of the ship.

"Yeah, okay, pipsqueak. Be careful, okay, don't climb the railing." Qrow chuckles as he turns around carefully to look down at his hyperactive niece, his heart melting at the sight of the excited six-year-old and the desire for adventure and exploration in her eyes as she attached herself to the railing, taking in all of Vale's wondrous sights in wide, silver eyes.

He missed seeing that childlike wonder in her eyes, favouring it in opposition to the sadness that plagued the four of them lately.

Qrow was overjoyed to be back in his hometown, there was no concealing that simple fact: but the reason his new family had set foot into a place foreign to them were old demons that caught their comrades too quickly, snuffing out the flames and vibrant fires of their lives long before they were meant to be extinguished, leaving a broken shell of a man with two daughters who were barely old enough to understand the concept of death itself, let alone the fact that both their mothers weren't coming home. And with none of them able to look at each nook and cranny in their house the same again, Qrow had collected all the broken pieces and brought them to somewhere he knew, where he could keep everything else afloat so everyone else could focus on putting themselves back together. It's what both Summer and his sister, Raven, would have wanted him to do: to find a way to help, to make things easier.

So to see Ruby enamoured with this new place, the relief he felt in his heart was undeniable: one problem ticked off the list, at the very least.

He smiled as Ruby turned around and barrelled into her older sister's arms, the two starting an animated conversation on the sights of Vale, but that smile faded at the sight of the father that trailed behind the pair: blue eyes dulled by restless nights, darkness underneath them the same as they were the night before. His gaze was on the children, sure, but the look in Tai's eyes told Qrow what really played before his eyes- the image of his two loves chatting animatedly in front of him like they never left, the yearning for something that could never again be so.

"Tai." His voice was soft, assuring as Qrow placed a hand on Tai's shoulder. The man in question deflated, a tired sigh falling from his lips.

"I'm fine, Qrow, I just..." He trailed off with a dismissive wave of his hand, but even that lacked the vigour it once did, the life it once did.

But there was still a flickering flame of life, and Qrow will rekindle that flame that had once resided in his brother.

"You handle the girls, I'll handle the rest. Don't worry about it, alright?" Qrow tried to reassure, but even then he knew those simple words weren't enough. Qrow was never a man of honeyed words and poetry, after all: his own elegance was defined by a deadly charisma, the grace and decorum in which he handled his blade. The Herald of Misfortune was known for his talent as a Huntsmen, a legend in his life of work. His battles were said (overexaggerated is the right word for it, Qrow thinks with a snort) a stunning display of the balance between light and darkness, symbolic to how one speck of hope in the form of a man could fight back the ungodly horrors that endangered the innocents. His days used to be filled with much more danger and excitement, with adrenaline coursing through his veins and his heart thumping a quick-paced but steady rhythm as the line between him and his weapon blurred until no one knew where Harbinger ended and Qrow Branwen began.

But he'd sacrifice all that fame and renown for his family in a second, and that led him here.

And he was so focused on settling Tai and the girls into their new home in Vale, he barely noticed the letter that appeared at his doorstep with the wax seal of none other than-

"The Vale Opera House? That's where Bartholomew and Peter ended up after all these years?" Tai asked as he read the letter again, the tickets to their latest production starring some Cinderella chick in his other hand as Qrow watches Ruby and Yang play in the garden.

"Apparently. We always had to cover for their asses in missions anyway, they were never the combat type." Qrow huffs as he takes a sip of his iced tea, sweltering underneath the summer heat. And as the day progress, Qrow doesn't pay any mind to it until stars littering the night sky and he's tucking his beloved nieces into bed.

"Uncle Qrow?" Ruby asks as he pulls the blanket over her small figure, and his eyes meet hers.

"What's up, kiddo?" He asks, but out of every question his niece could have asked, he certainly didn't expect this one.

"Have you ever liked someone? Like, _like_ like someone?"

_"It was just a hat, you know." He remembers his voice so vividly, the concern and the care etched deeply in every syllabus, masked with a relieved laugh as Qrow clutches the soaked hat in his hands: something so valuable, so priceless if it brought a smile to his face._

_"But you love that funky little hat. Why else would I jump into the sea to get it, dumbass?" He had asked back then, for it simply made no sense for him to question it. How could something_ just _be something if it brought you joy, if it placed that ethereal smile on your face? Everything that made you smile had infinite worth, immeasurable value, even if it was a moment, a simply fleeting second._

_"You're soaking wet now, you're such an idiot for doing that for me." Perhaps that's all he was: a fool, a halfwit, nothing but a mere simpleton. But he put that smile on Roman's face, and if he had to be an idiot to do that..._

_Well, so be it._

_"I'd do anything for you."_

"Oh my gosh, he has." Yang interrupted that brief moment of nostalgia, and the famed Huntsmen scoffs dismissively, denying the blush that betrays him.

"Yeah, yeah, go to sleep, you rascals." He rebutted as he went to leave the room, but that only fuelled their amusement.

"You're blushing!! Uncle Qrow is in loOOooOoooove!" He chuckled as he closed the door behind him, his smile only growing when he hears them giggle and laugh like how they used to after Summer told them a story about Tai and Raven back when they were teenagers. He missed hearing them giggle to themselves, and the sound of it took the weight off his shoulders, making everything seem lighter, somehow. 

_Oh god, Roman Torchwick, how long has it been?_ He thinks to himself as he retires to his quarters for the night, lighting a candle and sitting at his desk by the window, looking out into the starry night. God, how long has it been, ten years? A fond smile appeared on his expression as he recounted those days spent helplessly in love, how things just felt so right back then: training sessions with Madame Calavera, the rest of the day spent roaming the city with his childhood love in the midsummer air, skipping rocks in the lake, lying face to face in the grass, faces barely an inch apart.

He remembered how easily he had loved, even scoffed at his foolishness back then: how he trusted so easily, how he just left his heart in the hands of someone else and let them play with his heartstrings so freely, without any restraint, without any remorse, without any regret. He remembered just how much he would give to keep him smiling, to keep that expression frozen in a state of pure joy and happiness no matter how much he would bleed. Even now, he could still feel the stir of butterflies in his stomach, a feeling not entirely unpleasant.

_Didn't you want to be a singer, Romeo?_

_Did you ever make it to the stage that you admired whilst we sat upon the rafters, enamoured by each and every performance?_

_Are you happy?_

He asks these questions to the night sky with no expectation of a response, but instead, he's met with a freak gust of wind that pushes past him and enters his office, scattering the countless papers on his desk. The old crow curses as he swiftly shuts the window, before begrudgingly going to pick up what had fallen to the floor. But as he does, his eyes find the two tickets to the Vale Opera House's newest production amongst the commotion, peeking out of the letter it came with.

_Was this the response he never thought he'd expect?_

He picked up the letter and the tickets from the floor, eyes following the inked cursive against the crisp letter, the tickets in his other hand as he ponders the possibilities, his memories bringing him back to a rich, fruitful laugh reminiscent of spring, a smile so radiant it put the sun and stars to shame in its brilliance.

Could it be? Could it be Roman?

Only one way to find out, he thinks to himself as he sits down at his desk again, writing another letter and clearing his schedule for two weeks after.

His heart feels lighter, a strange phenomenon as he descends into dreams of fiery amber hair and passionate emerald eyes.

~~~

The days passing ever since Cinder left the production had been a frenzied blur he barely remembers.

Following the steps in a daze as he imitates and mimics what he can, each step with a practised precision he can't remember, he gets swept up in the currents of music, flowing from the fresh manuscript into the cold, crisp air, Roman does everything with a sense of delirium and disbelief as the premiere of Hannibal draws near. The practices are a blur, fitting sessions in fleeting seconds as his new role sinks in slowly but surely: carried away in the currents of the waltz he joined when he was casted as the role of Elissa.

What he remembers, though: is a haunting presence that hangs over the cast and crew, strings of tension drawing taut as the premiere draws near: each slip-up, each accident only tightening and thickening the apprehension in the air.

"Something troubles you, my dear." The deep baritone startles him, but calm soothes the sting of surprise as his voice washes over him in a haze he can't explain, scattering his thoughts, his mind wandering to places he can't describe. He knows the angel speaks the truths of his mind, for that lies no doubt, but for the life of him: those troubles slip past his fingertips, forgotten, lying just out of reach.

"My angel, I...forgive me, I seem to be elsewhere." He apologizes but even his voice is far away, unrecognisable but even then-

"Do not concern yourself with such trivial affairs, my heart." He hears the voice provide him with that comfort, but like always, he can't distinguish its source. He wonders why a part of him still tries, paying no mind to the incoherency cause by his enamouring presence, not a single care for how he wanders until he finds himself in the depth of the dark, succumbing to his muses.

"All you need concern yourself with is your gift."

And with that he fades, and the gaping void in his place is overwhelming, yet invisible to all but him.

"Roman, you're expected backstage in 5."

"I'll be right there." He calls to the voice behind the door before he looks into the mirror. He prays he can focus as he exits the dressing room, the journey a daze and before he knows it, he's on stage with a spotlight shining on his silhouette and he thinks he should be nervous, but-

He feels at ease.

And he sings a song of longing, not for admiral blue but for rose red.

~~~

It's him.

Ten years later and he's here in the flesh and _he's singing, and he's beautiful-_ amber hair swept to the side in a braid, his demeanour confident, composed, like the role was made for him. His eyes shine with passion as his lips paint a masterpiece out of a simple song of longing, and Qrow Branwen is _entranced._ Qrow should have known Roman would make it big, he was always so talented and passionate about music, there was nowhere else Qrow could have possibly imagined he'd go. But as Roman sings, he finds that he forgets all that: every note brings him back to the things they'd get up to on the streets of Vale, the meadows they'd lie down in and share their secrets, to peaceful mornings spent at the Torchwick household after training with Madame Calavera.

Gazing at him now, it feels so long ago, how young and innocent they were.

_He may not even remember me,_ he thinks to himself as the song concludes, joining the crowd and getting to his feet, contributing to the thunderous applause. But he finds that it hardly matters how much he remembers of their foolish antics in their youth. What Qrow sees here is still Roman Torchwick, and-

He sees Roman's eyes fluttering shut, his knees buckling underneath him as he sways and crashes to the floor, unmoving.

Apprehension rises as the applause abruptly halts, frantic and concerned whispers starting to circulate around the room as two dancers whisk Roman backstage, but he couldn't care less of the crowd, of the critics. How could he, when Roman just fucking fainted, just like that?

"Hey, you okay? You look like you seen a ghost-" Taiyang asks but Qrow's out of the door before he can even think, halfheartedly telling Tai he'll be back before he disappears into the crowd.

Qrow Branwen had ten years of countless missions, had dedicated his whole life to protecting people, had slain countless Grimm by his hand.

But this feeling, the feeling that pushed him past the crowds, that brought his hand to the handle of Harbinger: the fear, the concern, the dread, every instinct screaming to get to Roman, that _something_ would get to him if he didn't.

This wasn't just concern for his health, and he knew this.

There was something much more sinister at play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaa sorry for the late updates!! i was planning to update this sooner but college got in the way :( i'll try to upload chapters every month / every 2 weeks! i hope you stuck around, thank you if you did, i hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> find me on tumblr


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